Free The Chisellers by Brendan O'Carroll

no more questions. In his seventeen years Mark had never asked Agnes for one single penny. Mind you, to start with fifty pounds was a bit of a shocker, but her faith and trust in the young man was infinite. She delved into her handbag and withdrew a fifty-pound note.
    Mark’s eyes opened wide. ‘Jesus, Ma, I didn’t expect you to have it here and now. Don’t tell me you’re carrying that money around with yeh all the time?’
    ‘Nah, I just put that fifty in me bag ’cause it made me feel good. Yeh know, walkin’ around town with fifty quid in your bag, it’s a nice feelin‘. I have the rest hid at home in one of me suede boots in the wardrobe.’
    ‘Good — and keep it hid,’ Mark said emphatically.
    Mark took the fifty-pound note, kissed his mother on the cheek and was off about his very important business. He went to the Browne flat in James Larkin Court where he picked up his own fifty pounds. He took out a blank work pad and pencil, and spent his morning sketching page after page. In a few hours he had finished three different designs for three suites of furniture.

     
    ‘We should use a rope!’ exclaimed Cathy Browne. She was sitting on the tiny wall that surrounded Mountjoy Square, using the railings as a back rest. She had her elbows on her knees and her head was cupped in her hands. She was wearing a serious look of contemplation as she stared at the go-cart. Written on the side of the cart was ‘Flippin’ Flyer’. Sitting beside her in an identical pose was her best friend and driver Cathy Dowdall.
    ‘Nah! I’ll use me feet. I’m better steerin’ with me feet.’
    ‘I’ll tell yeh what.’ Cathy Browne stood up. ‘We’ll try one run with the rope and then we’ll try one with your feet and we’ll see which is the fastest — okay?’
    Cathy Dowdall was impressed with this suggestion and between them they began fixing the rope to the front axle. When it was firmly in place they pulled the cart over to the top of Fitzgibbon Street, the site of next Saturday’s go-cart race. The course would run from the traffic lights to a white chalked line that would be drawn just past Fitzgibbon Street police station.
    Cathy Dowdall climbed on board and gripped the rope tightly, lacing it through her fingers as if she were holding the reins of a thoroughbred stallion. Cathy Browne stood behind her, hands placed firmly on the other Cathy’s shoulders and a look of fierce concentration on her face - like she was going to have a shite any minute.
    ‘Ready — steady - go!’ Cathy Dowdall screamed, and with a huge grunt Cathy Browne launched the cart.
    Flippin’ Flyer was living up to its name and making great speed down Fitzgibbon Street. Cathy Dowdall had her eyes squinted up and her tongue sticking out one side of her mouth, and was crouched down in a pose of grim determination. For a brief moment she wondered what the object was as it flew past her on her right-hand side. When she heard the loud scraping sound and saw Cathy Browne tumble head-over-heels, she quickly realised it was one of her back wheels. The cart slewed sideways off the footpath, throwing Cathy Dowdall into the gutter. The cart proceeded down the hill, flipping over and over, as splinters of wood flew in all directions. It came to a sudden halt at a post which held a sign that warned of an oncoming junction. There was a loud bang and the body of the cart snapped in half.
    The two girls rose slowly to their feet. They were standing thirty feet apart. Cathy Browne had blood streaming from her knee-cap, and a strip of material hung down from her torn skirt. Cathy Dowdall was in a worse state. Both her knees and both elbows were bleeding, and blood trickled from a cut just above her left eye. She stood staring at the debris that was once the Flippin’ Flyer, her bottom lip quivering in her pale face. She turned to look at Cathy Browne. She too stood, hands by her sides in shock, tiny rivulets of tears running down her